Dear Sir,

Art is bollocks. Success in art is reserved for the lucky and those who can bullshit. I've never been in either of these categories. My art is purely for self expression and even though I would like to say I am an artist, I make my living mainly by drawing Christmas cards. Every year I go through the usual list of greetings and even though it provides me with enough to exist, there is no poetry in that work. A dull and pointless drawing of a dog by Hitler, a man whose profession was to be a murderous dictator, is worth more than the commulative value of everything I ever created. Is that fair? no. Something must be done.

When the idea was first concieved in the depths of my mind, I imagined this letter as a long and emotional piece, something that could rival the book of Job. I imagined you, crying. You see, as you are reading this very line, I am already dead. I figured that I should end my very mundane life in the most spectacular of fashions and so buy myself an eternal place in Art's annals. Van Gogh and I will be off our faces on Absinthe and we will laugh at the stupidity of critics. By dying, I will bring value to my life's work. It makes sense.

This is both a suicide note and a will and hence I must end it in an appropriate manner. It must rain heavily in winter so that fruit will flourish in spring.

Your ever loving,
John White